


your heartbeat is my lullaby

by extremiss



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Panic Attacks, Violence, or at least I think so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 15:17:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7227691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extremiss/pseuds/extremiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Close your eyes and count to ten.</p><p>I'll still be here when you open them."</p>
            </blockquote>





	your heartbeat is my lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> omg ok so this is pretty old and has been in my files for So Long and i just decided to finish it LMAO im sorry yea but still enjoy!!!!
> 
> x-posted on tumblr: http://kahrasuno.tumblr.com/post/146062028791/

_Close your eyes and count to ten._

_I'll still be here when you open them._

His eyes slide shut. It's Kuroo's cue to pick up Kenma's trembling hand from his lap and fit the small hand perfectly in his own. With a gentle squeeze, he tries to somehow will the muffled heartbeats fluttering down the veins of their wrists to go in sync.

Kenma's breathing begins to even out to the soothing timber of Kuroo's hushed voice. He lets it lull him into a temporary calm, somewhat, and with some semblance of hesitance, he looks up from through the curtain of his golden hair strands only to get— _to his relief_ —a glimpse of the always-there and lopsided-but-sincere smile on Kuroo's face.

 "See," he tells Kenma, "you'll be alright."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Kuroo watches attentively from the broken down television, undeterred by the faulty wiring and equally faulty signal that scatter the screen with colored artifacts and static. His back is slumped into a curve by the worn-out cushions, his chin under a hand and one perpetually tired Kenma slumped by his side.

"It's... kinda crazy." Kenma mutters. He looks absolutely mortified.

"Not _that_ crazy."

Kenma's head turns ever so slightly, his blonde hair mussing itself up on the blade of Kuroo's shoulder. He warily eyes him, a weird look coming to rise in his cat-like eye, but Kuroo doesn't falter. "If your name was drawn at The Reaping, I'd volunteer too." He says, with a nonchalant shrug for good measure.

Kenma furrows his eyebrows, a distant sort of worry etched onto his face. "Promise me you won't."

Kuroo doesn't reply, gaze guiltily shifting elsewhere.

"Kuroo," whines Kenma, face entirely serious.

There's the smallest change in Kuroo's expression that Kenma, looking back, _should_ have noticed. Oh _god_ , he should have seen it.

"Fine," concedes Kuroo, "I won't volunteer in your place."

 

 

* * *

 

 

_"Kuroo! No!"_

Long limbs fly and attach themselves to Kuroo's side, nails digging deep into his arm. The air is _heavy_ , desperate, and Kuroo spares a look at Lev. He hates to see that the idiot's face was now void of anything else but so much confusion and so much _guilt_. So near-tears, too.

But Kuroo shakes him off—or tries to—and keeps his hand up in the air amongst the crowd.

He may have worn a stone-hard expression as of this moment, but he feels the mini-quakes under his skin. He has been feeling them ever since he swore he felt a bomb set off in his chest upon the drawing of the first name.

Lev, from where he's standing, might get the barest sense of the panic Kuroo tries to sheath in faux bravery, but it's only a secondary factor to Lev's apprehension. Lev really doesn't want anyone's—especially not Kuroo's—blood on his hands.

"Don't volunteer for me. Please, Kuroo,"

"Sorry," interrupts Kuroo, quietly—almost even calmly, "I'm not doing it for you."

Lev's eyes fall on Kenma, who looks so shaken up and so _small_ , alone on that stage, with no hand to hold. He'd been so used to having Kuroo's warm hand over his at moments such as this.

Lev _knows_ there's no stopping Kuroo. His hands fall weakly to his sides, a far-off death march humming past the hallways of his mind.

Lev can't hear anything after; can't hear what Kuroo yells into the atmosphere. But he sees Kuroo's mouth form the words, and he feels like whispering a silent prayer.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

Kenma's eyes go wide. The all-too-familiar voice that breaks into chilling silence of the town square makes the grip on his fraying pants tighten. 

_No._

The Peacekeepers spot Kuroo in the horde of District 4 folk without trouble, and make a quick move toward him.

_No, no, no, no._

Kenma's eyes follow the sound of armor clicking and feet crushing into soot.

 _You're too sly, Kuroo_ , Kenma thinks, eyes blurring and head spinning, _you've always been._

 

* * *

 

 

Kenma can't stop looking at him, now that they're standing side-by-side. The look on his face reads betrayal and disbelief—

—but Kenma's hand finds its way into Kuroo's somehow, and a light squeeze on his hand promises him that it'll be okay.

Kenma doesn't believe him.

(But he feels an odd sense of relief all the same.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

The train ride is horribly awkward, and Kenma still refuses to talk. Not that he'd been a person of many words to begin with, but he had chosen the seat farthest from Kuroo's, bent on intently watching the passing surroundings turn into a blur.

Perhaps Kuroo deserves the cold shoulder. It wasn't quite deception, but he understands Kenma's rationale. Even though the case, it worries him to think that Kenma is taking on the creeping fear alone when he could have sidled some of the burden onto Kuroo's shoulders— Kuroo was always going to be willing. They've also no time for a quarrel. They'll be at the arena in less than an hour at most.

Kuroo's stomach lurches again, because he _knows_.

Kenma's hands were not made for killing.

(And that's exactly why Kuroo's here.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

They made it past the Cornucopia, blood-pumping wildly, ears ringing, limbs working almost completely on their own as if their bodies were on auto-pilot.

In the satchel Kuroo had violently swiped from the District 5 tribute is a machete, several daggers, medical herbs and bread that would last them for five days at most. He's glad that the stranger had been so quick to collect, but even more glad that he was quicker to jab an icepick into his neck.

He walks on ahead, making sure to have Kenma close behind him. He doesn't so much as move if he doesn't feel the tug of Kenma's fingers on his back.

Sunset comes and they find a place to stay. A safe haven at least until someone finds them.

It's a dank cave under a tree, and it's cold, _too_ cold, so Kuroo has Kenma's hands between his own and Kenma's head on his chest.

The first canon fires. The sound rips through the artificial sky in a loud, hallow, _sad_ boom. Kuroo's head cranes out the cave's opening. The faces show up in the sky one by one, death count rising, faces flashed getting younger and younger.

He looks down at Kenma's hands, sees a ninth finger uncurl on beat with the ninth canon shot.

Kuroo folds Kenma's fingers back into a fist. "Don't," he says, "don't count them. It will only depress you."

Kenma only nods soundlessly, despite how his body remains rigid against Kuroo's.

 _Count to ten_ , Kuroo whispers into Kenma's hair. _I'll still be here._

 

 

* * *

 

 

_One._

 

"Kuroo," calls Kenma, freezing in his tracks in a manner most mechanical. "Don't move."

Kuroo knits his eyebrows together, visibly perplexed, but trusts Kenma's judgement anyway. He always has. "What is it?" He whispers, voice urgent.

Kenma is looking somewhere past the trees, but Kuroo can't tell exactly where. He sees Kenma's eyes squint, watches Kenma's gaze fall down to his feet, and to the plethora of dusty leaves surrounding them.

"Follow me."

And Kuroo's instinct is to do just that. He follows very carefully; he steps only right where Kenma had stepped.

But Kuroo's footing had almost gone awry, so by the time he hears a click and recoils, he's not _too_ late: he stumbles thankfully into Kenma's weak—but safe—arms. He had missed the opportunity to death by spear by almost a hair.

"Shit!" yelps Kuroo.

"Shhh, Kuroo."

Kenma leads onward as if nothing had happened. After Kuroo shakes off the feeling of almost getting killed for perhaps the third time in the row now, he follows.

He and Kenma are continuing down the path, leaving the crunches of leaves in their wake, when Kuroo pipes up again. "You were able to see the trap?"

"Hm, yeah."

Kuroo hums, in understanding. "Can't say I'm surprised. You've always had a good eye and a tactical mind."

Uncomfortable with such praise, Kenma only mumbles, "Keep quiet..."

Kuroo snickers, and the mere sound of it makes Kenma's chest feel lighter—if only a little bit.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Two_

There's a vast difference between Districts 1 and 2 and the rest. The rest kill for survival. The careers kill for _sport_.

They sprint after and predatorily hover over the people who they deem are weaker than them (such as Kuroo and Kenma), like tigers would prey on a hare. Kuroo, most of the times, is ready to battle— but their tight, out-weaponed and out-resourced situation only allows for them to _keep running._

They run as until their breathing is labored, as Kenma begins to wheeze, but they can't stop there. Not until that glimmer of the sharpest sword blade disappears from their sights for good.

Kuroo's eyes are scanning their surroundings from a limited vantage point behind a tree trunk, Kenma from the other, ridden with this odd rapid inhale and exhale pattern.

But like previously mentioned, killing is not exclusive to the privileged.

The next few moments come by too fast.

Kenma violently chokes, as a hand comes to wrap firmly around his throat. His breathing is thoroughly cut off now, the fingers encircling his neck nearly crushing his trachea, undoubtedly imprinting dark red bruises on his skin.

He is at the brink of consciousness, all muddled thoughts, gurgling sounds and desperate thrashing of legs. He's off the ground, he notices, but can barely even register the angered yell that seems to be coming from Kuroo.

The white hair and golden eyes are gone from him in a flash, as he lands on wobbly feet and as the back of his attacker hits a tree with a thud that sounds really, _really_ painful. It probably is so, because a loud groan escapes the white-haired boy's scarred mouth.

Kuroo is about to shove a knife into the stranger's abdomen as a result of this feral, visceral instinct to impose unadulterated bloodshed— his mind, now one-tracked, is thinking: _Kenma has been harmed, Kenma has been harmed, Kenma has been harmed_ , and any vestiges of logic or reason are momentarily overpowered.

He hears a distant whistle, and only is brought back to his senses when he feels the sharp burst of pain ripple on an _exact_ point on his right shoulder.

He lets go of the white-haired aggressor—he has to, because it fucking _hurts_ to hold him there. His hand flies to the arrow now pierced in chilling accuracy onto his back.

The path of the arrow's flight traces back to a boy, perched on a branch, equipped with a bow. His lidded eyes are unreadable at first glance, but the deep furrow of his eyebrows shows a million things Kuroo might sympathize with: protectiveness, intimidation (and well-hidden fear).

"I aimed at your scapula." He says, voice calm. Kuroo grimaces, his would-be smirk tinged in pain.

"If I aimed some centimeters more to the left, I could have shot your spinal cord directly. I don't have to tell you what would happen if I did."

"What's Anatomy 101 doing with a bow and arrow in The Hunger Games?"

Ah, there it is: that same shit-eating grin. His grip on his knife hasn't loosened, either.

"Okay." Undeterred, the black-haired boy shifts stance to direct an arrowhead at Kenma. "I could aim for _his_ , instead."

"Fuck," rasps Kuroo. He immediately drops the the knife then, lifting the hand he _can_ move in surrender. "Fine. He can go." He says, side-eyeing the guy with the funny hairstyle. Said guy squints, picking himself up and dusting himself off, disconcerted.

The archer stands down, holding his bow slack by his side. He leaps off and lands gracefully onto the ground, then straightening up to respond with a polite nod. "We appreciate it."

The two make no more moves to strike; and Kuroo and Kenma have to stand there for some moments, a little bit dumbfounded as they watch the endless forests swallow up the strangers' retreating figures.

"Kuroo, let's go," says a _very_ worried Kenma finally, hauling an injured Kuroo along with him to a secluded area.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Three._

" _Fuuuuck_." 

Kenma examines the open wound, wiping and dabbing at fresh blood residues with the softest of touches he can manage. The disinfecting tincture Kenma has interfused with herbs he'd scoured for prior _seriously_ **stings** — Kuroo is gritting his teeth, back slumped over his legs, muscles taut with exertion.

"How does it feel?" Kenma asks.

"Hurts like a bitch." hisses Kuroo, honest, but then letting out a quick, ironic laugh. Typical Kuroo.

Kenma finishes up the sutures, closing up the broken flesh with makeshift silk threads. He then concentrates some extracts from another suspicious-looking plant to coat Kuroo's injury.

"What's that for?" Kuroo questions, concealing his unease.

"It _might_ prevent muscle function loss. But I'm not promising anything."

Kenma feels Kuroo tense under his fingertips. " _What?_ "

Kenma lets Kuroo stew in his pure terror and petrifaction, biting a chuckle away. "Relax," he says finally, with a roll of the eyes, even though Kuroo won't see from this position. "It's just to numb the pain."

" _Oh_ , wait. I get it. That was a joke." Kuroo replies. "That was like a Kenma Kozume type of joke. Okay."

"Ugh." Kenma pays no mind to the blatant sardonicism, or tries not to, as he applies the gel-like substance on Kuroo's reddened shoulder.

"Don't 'ugh' me—" Kuroo freezes. "— _fuck!_ You're relentless!"

A prickly ice-cold sensation spreads on his back, and Kenma allows for a triumphant smile on his face. However, the smile fades gradually into a tight frown. His eyebrows draw together in a furrow.

"You have to stop being so rash," comes Kenma's quiet, even-mousier-than-usual voice. The words falling from his mouth are laced with concern and are hushed but not quite, as he wraps a bandage under Kuroo's arm and around the affected area meticulously. "Stop getting hurt so stupidly."

Kenma can't see anything but Kuroo's bare back, but he knows that admist this silence is a smug grin. He tugs the bandage with _extra_ force.

"Ouch! _Kenma!_ "

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Four._

Kuroo only kills when it's necessary. 

Kuroo tries to cling to whatever humanity he has left. In an environment such as this, however, the necessity to kill is almost always there. It's the one constant of these games.

Kuroo hates it — he hates that he has to end lives with his own hands; hates even more that Kenma sees him do it each time.

He doesn't want Kenma to grow scared of him.

(But Kenma isn't scared. Of him, at least.

 _For_ him— for _them_ , maybe.

When they take shifts at night, Kenma watches Kuroo sleep on his lap. In his guilt-consumed slumber, Kuroo is always twitching and sweating. Kenma can't blame him.

Kenma looks heavenward, catching sight of the faces of the people—the _children_ —he's seen killed that day appear with the echo of that dreaded cannon, then back down to Kuroo's nightmare-ridden, pained, sleeping face. Remnants of dried blood are under his fingernails, Kenma notes, feeling a pinch in his chest.

He has images of Kuroo with a net over his shoulder and a rod in one hand by the bay back in District 4. Kenma relives the scene behind closed eyelids: the beats of sunlight, the sparkle of the azure seawater, a far-off rumble of laughter, the smell of salt.

He recalls Yaku, Yamamoto, Lev and everybody surrounding them, with harpoons, fish in baskets and damp towels wrung loosely around necks. He remembers the kids who often tend to crowd Kuroo in the midday sun—recalls the bright smiles on their faces when Kuroo ruffles their hair.

 _You weren't made for killing, Kuroo._ )

 

* * *

 

 

 _Five_.

 

A flame materializes with a faint sizzling sound. It sits between the two, setting their faces aglow with the warm, orange flare. The hums of cicadas and the gusts of wind almost makes the scene seem peaceful. 

They had been severely starving by then, stomachs aching and empty, and were fortunate enough to spy a juvenile fowl for which they had no qualms about eating. Kenma is nibbling on his designated piece of charred hawk meat, mouth watering.

There is a bright light dancing on his light sepia-toned irises, turning them gold with flecks of bronze. The embers crackle along with the flicker of licks of fire, illuminating and casting shadows on the delicate contours of his face.

Kuroo can't fight back a sigh.

"What's wrong?" Kenma asks. Besides _everything_ , of course.

"Nothing," shrugs Kuroo. Kenma thinks it'd stop there, and he'd decide not to push it, but Kuroo pipes up again; this time his usual confidence is ostensibly flickering. "Just." he inhales sharply—

—Kenma stills, his eyes widening and lips parting slightly. At first, he wonders if Kuroo meant what he _thinks_ he meant, but he shakes the thought off because now, it's beginning to become _clear_ to him.

The words sounded so heartfelt, but were so unprecedented. Kenma has never been good with surprises. He almost says something, but his heart swells and all the nonexistent words die in his throat at once.

Then, Kuroo laughs— _really_ laughs. It's loud and sincere and Kenma realizes he hasn't heard it for so long. "Why are you so surprised?" Kuroo asks, grinning. "I've always kissed you goodbye, haven't I?"

"Yeah, but I thought..." Kenma trails off, whilst starting to think back. There are vignettes of familiar memories on rewind: before Kuroo would leave for the market in the afternoon or before he went boating come sunrise and he'd ask for a little peck, or give one. Kenma had rationalized it into a mere act of friendship, but he realizes that other friends _don't do that_.

Kuroo likes him. No, Kuroo _loves_ him, as he'd just said, and as Kenma had just discovered. Kenma feels like crying, maybe.

He _knows_ he wants to say it back but what good would it do at a time like this? What's the point?

There's a short pregnant pause and Kuroo isn't looking at Kenma anymore. Instead he's staring wistfully into the distance. Behind those trees isn't home. Behind the glass they know is there isn't home, either.

"It was selfish of me, too." He quietly says.

"What was?" _Telling me this in a warzone? In the worst timing possible?_

"That I was relieved you made me promise that."

"Kuroo," sighs Kenma.

"I was thinking," begins Kuroo anyway, "if I died, I wish my final moments were with you, at least."

Kenma keeps silent. He worries his lips between teeth, falling into a cycle of rumination.

"I'm horrible, right?" Kuroo laughs, self-deprecatingly, and Kenma hates that he'd been treated to the sound of Kuroo's genuine laughter only to hear a fabricated version of it yet again. "Sorry."

"No, you're not." Kenma replies, firm, even a little bit offended Kuroo would think that about himself. His tone, however, weakens instantly. "And stop talking like that..."

_...it's not the end yet._

"Sorry, sorry." Kuroo looks his way once more.

Kenma decides he'll never get sick of Kuroo's smiles at all, no matter how lopsided.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Six._

 

He sees them again, when the twenty-four count had dropped to ten and now nine. 

The archer with the distinctly pretty face is sprawled on soil and blades of grass, motionless.

Kenma has barely met him and on such bad terms, too, but he feels like simultaneously crying and throwing up all the same. He _has_ to be going — but he can't just leave. The dread comes to latch him down to the ground where he stands and he watches everything unfold: the archer's white-haired companion is wholly—mentally _and_ physically—falling apart, looking from above the archer's bloodied body, screaming as the tears keep streaming down his face, wetting his scar, and seemingly sucking life from his very core.

He snarls not much later, degenerating into an animalistic state as he lets the dismal sadness, anger and brokenness maneuver his body in place of sense.

Unforgiving, with his bare hands and without thinking, he kills all careers but one.

It's remorseless and loud—

—and then it's completely silent: he sinks to his knees, uncaring. He could die now. He could die. He doesn't care. Take him. _Take him._

Someone does. Kuroo barely makes in time to cover Kenma's eyes and hesitantly pull him along.

Kenma sees a blade detach the head from the body.

He vomits, and sobs dry tears.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Seven._

 

He feels a pang of thirst ride down his throat in the form of harsh soreness, leaving his throat feeling like sandpaper. His hands fumble for a flask hooked to his pants, and once the lid is lifted, he is greedily guzzling down the lukewarm water he had collected and stored from a clean lake earlier on.

Kenma uses the back of his hand to wipe at his mouth, and once his mind is back from high of quenching his thirst, the mild restlessness returns.

He had followed Kuroo's orders. He hid and remained there until he would return. If he were being truthful, he wouldn't have wanted to split up at all. Neither did Kuroo, really, but he was convinced that this was the most prudent course of action as of the moment, and so, Kenma trusted him.

But his good eyesight was sometimes his curse— he saw the District 9 tribute coming before he indeed, hurled toward him.

Everything was an instantaneous blur from then onward.

Kenma's hands are shaking, the grip of his fingers fluttering on the handle of the knife now buried into someone else's guts. His violent trembling plunges him into a state akin to paralysis. He looks down at his hands, sees red, and the agonizing panic worsens.

He scrambles away from the corpse, sweaty and goosebumps-ridden, and clenches his fists closed tightly.

It's not too long before Kuroo zips by, ineffably relieved to see Kenma in the same spot where he'd left him.

That is, until he's close enough to see the terror and repulsion written all over Kenma's face.

"I killed him." He says, standing up to meet Kuroo on unbalanced feet. Kuroo glances at the body by Kenma's feet.

"I'm _so_ sorry, Kenma," is the only thing Kuroo _can_ say, as he pulls Kenma's shivering frame into his arms. Kenma rests his head on the crook of Kuroo's neck, shallowly breathing unto his skin.

His innocence won't wane, but Kuroo foolishly hopes the mark of his first kill will not haunt him like Kuroo's still does. Kenma deserves better. "It's not your fault." Kuroo whispers like a personal mantra by Kenma's ear.

 

 

* * *

  

 

_Eight._

No one could tell beyond his show of steel skin, because he'd oftentimes be so strong, and seem so brave on the surface.

That's not all, though.

Another thing about Kuroo Tetsurou: he always, _always_ blames himself. He is barely even able to manage the weight of two worlds on his shoulders.

He keeps telling Kenma it isn't Kenma's fault.

(But no one is telling him it isn't _his_ , either).

They make it back to the cave where they began, after trekking for the majority of the nth day — there's a tendency to lose count when you're in the games; the time between sun up and sun down bleed into each other, and then you're permanently disoriented. The cave's gotten _even_ colder now, if it was even possible, and not even the supposedly comforting warmth Kuroo emanates can spare them.

"It's okay," hushes Kuroo— at this point, Kuroo doesn't know who he is reassuring. He presses a soft, hardly-there kiss onto Kenma's forehead, and interweaves their fingers together, rubbing circles with his thumb on the ghosts of blood covering Kenma's cool skin. The shivering still isn't dying down. "Count to ten." He says.

Kenma counts in his head, Kuroo's nose in his hair, and his hand subsequently feeling a gentle squeeze.

All the while, Kuroo encounters a non-negotiable truth:

The arena makes killers of everyone.

This was true for him and is now true for Kenma. There was nothing he could do to stop it after all.

 _I'm sorry_ , Kuroo thinks. _You'll never have to do that ever again. I'll keep you safe._

Kenma holds onto Kuroo like a lifeline—

_It'll all end soon._

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Nine._

 

Kuroo and Kenma leave the cave during a purple sky, and have been hiking since; orange sky to blue. Whether or not one chooses a place to reside or not at all hinges on how skilled a person is in hiding or running (but neither of them think relying on one of the two is wise).

They are crossing a shallow stream, boots stepping into the rapid flow of spring water, when Kuroo feels Kenma urgently clutch onto the fabric of his wrinkled jacket.

Kuroo turns back, confused, as he sees Kenma's face fall.

 

 

" _Run_."

 

 

Their legs move on their own, upon the garbled growl of what seems to be a muttation by the Gamemaster.

It was sadistic, really; to pull out all the stops so late into the games, but cruelty was usually a Gamemaster's _strongpoint_.

They find themselves retreating to the completely opposite direction, retracing the path of which they'd just traversed, with a pack of grotesque, unrecognizable wolf-like beasts hot on their heels.

The beasts are led into the forest: Kuroo and Kenma take different routes and turns, effectively shaking off each mutt until one beast is left in the frenzied chase. From the corner of his eye, Kenma sees Kuroo pause by an oak tree— for what, Kenma doesn't know; he finds that he doesn't _care_ about whatever irresponsible justification Kuroo'll have _,_ because the hound is close to looming over Kuroo, its sharp, ragged teeth bared in anticipation.

Kenma's heels skid on dry soil, making a run toward Kuroo.

Kuroo faces it fully, slightly stiff; but he's holding his ground, and he lets it come at him. It leaps off its hind legs to pounce onto him, a feral sound reverberating from its body—

—it halts mid-air.

It spasms and is rendered motionless within the next seconds. Kenma watches with wide eyes: the wolf digs itself into Kuroo's curved blade, insides nearly spilling.

The machete Kuroo held remained lodged into what seemed to be the monster's abdomen, and he struggles quite a bit before he is able to unsheathe it from what was now devolved into a mere hunk of meat. He lets the body drop to the ground with a loud thump.

Kuroo huffs, catching his breath. He wipes his hands down his trousers, ridding himself of the slaughter, and Kenma is already dashing toward him before Kuroo could even begin to search for him.

"Kuroo—"

Kenma opens his mouth and immediately closes it: he pauses upon feeling a chill run down his spine.

He hears the crunching of soot behind him getting closer and closer.

"Not bad," drawls a new, unfamiliar, almost malignant cadence of a voice. Both Kenma and Kuroo's head snap to the source, and beholds a stranger with a wicked smirk who possessed a predatory gait, reminiscent of a career.

The other two cautiously step back; gulping away their anxieties. It would always come to this, after all; there is no escaping the inevitable.

The stranger spurs into action, charging at Kenma at full force. Kenma swiftly side-steps, making the career collide painfully into a rock, and Kuroo takes full advantage of this: he begins to throw a flurry of punches to a now-abraded face while the career is still in shock; a merciless but necessary precaution, more than anything else.

But Kuroo is soon kicked off with surprising force, sending him stumbling back where Kenma steadies him. The career is recovering, spitting blood and a tooth to his side, and subsequently flashing his two opponents a cocky, bloodstained grin.

"Like I said," he says, breath heavy from exertion, "not bad."

He sluggishly picks himself up on his feet, getting in a combative stance, and Kuroo lets out a pinched, troubled sigh, as if to say, _Damn_ , _I wish you would have just let this end._ Kuroo tightens the grip on his weapon.

Kenma shakes his head. "Kuroo," he calls, voice quiet, edging on panic. His legs are ready to sprint, he just needs Kuroo to let go of this— let the bloodshed about to take place go so he can come with, and they can be safe, and wait it out. Kenma holds onto a hope that Kuroo soon tears apart when Kuroo gives him the smallest apologetic smile. There is no outcome of this where they survive with _just_ running. Whether Kenma likes it or not. It's just not possible, not when a psychopathic career is fiery with bloodlust, and the Gamemaster has begun to spark some _creativity_.

The brawl that occurs has no finesse whatsoever. There's only desperation, and pure instinct. Before he knows it, Kenma is barely able to make it out of the crossfire, lips split, and bloody fingers wrapped around a serrated stone. The career is on top of Kuroo, punching, and punching, and punching and—

Kenma chokes out a sob, trying to get up. With difficulty, he's able to, clutching his hurt side, stalking toward the career with a speed that _should_ be impossible for him right now. The career is then raising a spear before Kuroo's heart, when he whips his head back, staring at Kenma with a crazed expression. "Don't you understand?" He says. "Don't you know a thing or two about survival?"

"Shut up," says Kenma, trembling.

"Did you really expect him to be the one to spare you the grave? Can't you see he's _failing_?"

"I said _shut up_!"

"This should be the part when you turn against him!"

Kuroo shifts from underneath him, grinning, making show of the bruise at the corner of his lips, and the film of blood on his front teeth. "Like hell he would."

The career's eyes lose the life in them, and Kenma is screaming Kuroo's name, roughly pushing the career off of him. Kenma crowds at Kuroo's side, absolutely and understandably hysterical.

"Stay with me," cries Kenma, voice thin and unsteady, "Kuroo, Kuroo— _Tetsurou_ , stay with me."

Kuroo had impaled the career in the heart, and if the stranger's blood pooling next to them is any indication, he's dead. Lifeless eyes open, skin paling. Dead. Though the career got Kuroo good, too, and if Kuroo wasn't fast enough, the career wouldn't have missed.

Kuroo's eyes suddenly fly open as he coughs out blood. Kenma's shaky hands fly and find their way to his face, feather-light and small and comforting. "Please. Please hold on. I'm gonna come back. I'm gonna fix you up." Kenma isn’t even sure he can maneuver his body like this, but he is about to turn to leave all the same, to collect whatever he can that will stop the bleeding on Kuroo's side. Just as he gets on a knee, a weak hand comes atop his to stop him.

"Don't," Kuroo croaks. "Don't need it."

" _Are you some kind of idiot!?_ "

Now Kenma is yelling, teetering on the impossibly small precipice of stability, tears flowing out and over onto wounded cheeks, and onto the dried blood on the edge of Kuroo's face.

"Yeah," admits Kuroo, dazed, "Kenma, look, just."

Kenma's shoulders quake, his wet eyes unable to meet on Kuroo's lidded ones.

"Hold my hand?"

Kuroo fights to eek it out, and Kenma's crying and gulping mouthfuls of air but does what Kuroo asks anyway. This time, Kenma envelopes his hands over Kuroo's. This time, Kuroo's hands are unbelievably cold. So, _so_ cold.

Kuroo's mouth still manages to quirk into a smile so thankful, so relieved. Kenma doesn't understand. He _can't_ understand— someone help him to. _Please_.

"Close your eyes. Count to ten."

Kuroo doesn't finish the thought; it hangs in the air, an untold lie Kenma doesn't need to hear.

But Kuroo pleads, and Kenma does count—

Unfortunately, Kenma doesn't reach ten, because Kuroo's clutch on him then goes slack.

"Kuroo?" He says, eyes fluttering open, his voice not above a whisper.

When Kuroo doesn't answer, Kenma scrambles to hover over Kuroo, teeth gritted, hands on either of his shoulders. " _Tetsurou_ ," begs Kenma, frantically trying to stir Kuroo awake. He grasps onto Kuroo's shirt, resolve unwavering. "Say something. Say something, _please_."

The first canon booms into the sky, the face of the fallen career revealing itself on the sky.

Kenma's ears are ringing, disbelief and regret and pain and grief coming to hold a vice grip on his throat. But Kenma can't hear. He can't hear anything. He is suffocating in a silence that feels deafening, unable to hear even the warble and crack of a voice that no longer sounds like him.

" _Tetsurou!_ Say something!"

The memories begin to flood— Kuroo's big warm hands, his lopsided smile, mornings by the sea, the soothing sound of a steady heartbeat, unsaid confessions over the span of years, and said confessions over an open fire, and the life’s worth of promises—

 _You promised_ , Kenma thinks, his head falling on a chest with no more heartbeat.

_Kenma Kozume from District 4 wins the annual Hunger Games!_

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Ten._

 

"Kenma," calls Yaku from by the doorframe. "Supper."

Yaku sets his eyes on the lonely silhouette that is Kenma. His back is turned, lined with the melancholy glow of the moon, his hair flutters with the laps of wind, and it's— it’s _cold_. Kenma is hugging himself, sharp fingernails digging punishingly into the skin on his forearms.

In another time, there might have been another figure by his side. One slouching over the rails of the pier, a toothy grin coming to face Kenma, and a gentle hand peeling Kenma's fingers from his skin to lace them with his instead.

"Coming."

Before he thinks the sea breeze could swallow his small voice whole, Yaku, understanding, retreats back into the house. He wearily passes by the run-down couch and crappy television where this year’s games are shown to be taking place, and he feels such a mix of resentment and grief bloom in the pit of his stomach. When the announcer mentions Kenma's name as victor of the prior games, Lev abruptly shuts the television off.

Lev slumps back onto the couch with a sigh. Having lost his apetite as well, Yaku opts to put a cover over their now-cold meals, and sits cross-legged by Lev’s side. It’s never been quite this silent before.

“You think he’s gonna be fine?” Yaku asks, staring blankly into the black of the television screen.

“I don’t know,” replies Lev, tone the tamest and most monotonous it’s ever been in his life, “I love him like you love him but I don’t know him like that. No one else knew him like that.”

“I miss him.” Lev admits, after much of the quiet.

Yaku smiles sadly. “Me too.”

Lev threads his long fingers with Yaku’s short ones, because that’s all he can really do, for both of them.

Outside, Kenma looks onward at clash of waves against the rocks, unable to feel anything.

It seems to be a recurring thing nowadays— the emptiness.

Later on, he finds himself back inside, violently awakening from another one of those new nightmares. He’s sweating and he’s stifled and the darkness of his room is suddenly blinding. He rumples the sheets beneath him, before he falls back and discovers that he is immobile.

He closes his eyes, trying to steady his breath, and—

He can’t count to ten.

He can no longer reach ten.


End file.
